and gentle scholars and wise professors. Lots of them were soldiers and
bloodthirsty brigands, and those are the ones he brags about most and in
spite of his mind, and all that, those are the ones he is most like. I
suppose it was in the blood to get what he wanted. I'm sure I don't
know how he did it. Lots of men had wanted Ernestine, and she had the
caring-for-her-art notion--she's made good tremendously, you know--but
art took a back seat when Dr. Hubers arrived on the scene. That's all
there is to it. I wouldn't call it a romance. It was more in the line of
a hop, skip and jump."

She had pushed back her chair a little, but laughed now, reminiscently.

"Oh it was just too funny! Some of it was too rich to keep. Karl came
here the day after he returned--wanted to hear me talk of Ernestine, you
know. People in love aren't exactly versatile in their conversation. I
did talk about her for two hours, and then I ventured to change the
subject. 'Karl,' I said, 'what do you think of the colour they're
painting the new Fifty-seventh Street station?'

"He had been sitting there in rapt silence and he looked up at me with a
seraphic, far-away smile. 'Colour,' he said, dreamily, 'was there ever
such a colour before?'

"'There certainly never was,' I replied, meaning of course the brick red
of the aforesaid station.

"'That divine brown,' he pursued,' that soft, dark, liquid brown of
unfathomable depth!' Now there," nodding laughingly at Beason, "you have
a sample of the great Dr. Hubers' mighty intellect."